Ansard. Capital! that last was a hit. It has all the appearance of reality. To be sure, I borrowed the hint, but that nobody will be able to prove. (Yawns.) Heigho! I have only got half way on my journey yet, and my ideas are quite exhausted. I am as much worn out and distressed as one of the German post-horses which I described in my last chapter. (Nods, and then falls fast asleep.)
Barnstaple taps at the door; receiving no answer, he enters.
Barnstaple. So—quite fast. What can have put him to sleep? (Reads the manuscript on the table.) No wonder, enough to put anybody to sleep apparently. Why, Ansard!
Ansard. (starting up, still half asleep.) Already? Why, I’ve hardly shut my eyes. Well, I’ll be dressed directly; let them get some café ready below. Henri, did you order the hind-spring to be repaired! (Nods again with his eyes shut.)
Barnstaple. Hallo! What now, Ansard, do you really think that you are travelling?
Ansard. (waking up). Upon my word, Barnstaple, I was so dreaming. I thought I was in my bed at the Hotel de Londres, after the fatiguing day’s journey I described yesterday. I certainly have written myself into the conviction that I was travelling post.
Barnstaple. All the better—you have embodied yourself in your own work, which every writer of fiction ought to do; but they can seldom attain to such a desideratum. Now, tell me, how do you get on?
Ansard. Thank you—pretty well. I have been going it with four post-horses these last three weeks.
Barnstaple. And how far have you got?
Ansard. Half way—that is, into the middle of my second volume. But I’m very glad that you’re come to my assistance, Barnstaple; for to tell you the truth, I was breaking down.